at the tips of my fingersand in the palms of my handson the backs of my eyelids, where sleep should bebetween fanciful flower petals, dead since long agoupon the fabric of my dress, where your hand met my waistwithin books and doors slammed shut, a restless cacophonyfrom falling rain, polluted by quixotic aspirationunder the breath swept from my mouth, in aprayer that i am not in love with you

“Did you witness her rise from the cold, wet earth? Did you watch as her petals unfold? Did you see the way the dew drops glistened like diamonds on her red-blood petals? Did you hear the whispers of her mind, heart and soul diffusing and infusing in fragrance carried around?"

She rose from underground, free from darkness and ready to spread love